


Medicine

by 796116311389



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Violence, Ficlet, Homophobia, John Watson Whump, John Whump, M/M, Major Illness, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 11:10:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14747705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/796116311389/pseuds/796116311389
Summary: Not all medicine is good.





	Medicine

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for some of the sad moments in this little ficlet.

Not all medicine is good.

When John was eight and he told his father he was going to marry the neighbour boy, Edward, his father slapped him. When John fell and cried, confused and scared, his father told him, "That's medicine."

When John was 15 and his mother was in hospital and her body was weak and she looked sicker then he had ever remembered seeing her, he cried and hugged her tight. She petted his hair and whispered, "It's okay, shh, it's just the medicine."

When John was 27 and in training for the military, his superior pushed him down, yelled derogatory things, and told him he'd never make it. John remembers looking at him from the ground, sweaty and sore in his fatigues, as he yelled at him, "It's just medicine for your own good!"

When John was 32 he got leave to visit his sister and her wife. He watched Harry and Clara dance around each other with sour tension. He and Harry went out to a pub and he watched his sister drink far too much in far too short a time. He told her to cut back and frowned when she told him, "There's no harm Johnny, just a bit of medicine."

When John was 36 and he lay writhing in the hospital delirious with fever, wishing that the bullet had, in fact, killed him, he told the nurse that something was wrong. He was being punished for wanting to live, for failing to save the others, his brothers-in-arms. The nurse smiled pitifully at him and said, "Oh, sweetie, that's just the medicine."

Six months later, John was back in London in a tiny, depressing bedsit, staring at the drawer with his gun thinking, _There's no medicine for this. There's only one cure for me._

That same day John met a man.

And that man was exhilarating and made him feel like he was alive.

He let John be himself and it was glorious.

When John was 38, the man jumped from a building taking John's whole world with him. John cried and cried and cried and when he couldn't cry anymore he would stand in the rain to let the sky cry for him. He told his therapist. They smiled sympathetically and said, "We can put you on some medicine, if you would like?"

When John was 41, he was just running through the motions. Everyday he would wake up, go to work, go home, go to sleep. Life was quiet and numb.

Then one day a man came in.

And he was old and scraggly, homeless by the looks of it. John listened to the man, diagnosed his pain, and turned around to fill out his medicine prescription pad. When he turned back the man was gone and instead his own personal madman stood there back from the dead.

And when John was 42 he told the madman what he meant to John. John's eyes shined with tears unshed and his madman cradled his face. They kissed and kissed and kissed and when they could kiss no more they lay in the sunbeams from the bedroom windows and soaked in the warmth of each other, sweeter than kisses.

And Sherlock whispers to him, "Not all medicine is good, John, but you're the cure for all that ails me."


End file.
